


Furnace Room Lullaby

by lindentree



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Horror, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindentree/pseuds/lindentree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nothing, not even light, can escape." A Violet/Tate AU mystery-horror murder ballad set in 1994.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is yet another Violet/Tate AU set in 1994. The concept is done to death at this point, but I guess I just wanted to explore my own version, so I hope some of you out there are willing to humour me.
> 
> I don't want to give away too much about what's the same and what isn't. All you need to know for the purposes of this story is that Violet is a year younger than Tate, and the Harmons have just moved into the Murder House for the same reasons we were presented with in the pilot episode. Some scenes/sections of dialogue will be familiar in order to maintain character and highlight some parallel plotlines, but this is not a retelling of the story we saw in season 1.
> 
> Short version: everything will (hopefully) become clear along the way, so please bear with me and the mystery.
> 
> The title of the fic and the lyrics at the beginning of this chapter are taken from Neko Case's song "Furnace Room Lullaby."

_I'm wrapped in the depths of these deeds that have made me;  
I can't bring this sound from my head, though I try.  
I can't seem to find my way up from the basement;  
a demon holds my place on earth 'til I die._

***

Los Angeles was every bit as intolerable as Violet imagined it would be. 

It was worse than she imagined, actually, and Violet prided herself on being able to imagine some pretty brutal shit. Her mind always veered downward to the worst case scenario. But this was worse than the worst case scenario. 

It was high school, and she was the new girl. It was a nightmare.

Violet sighed, dabbing a wad of prison-grade toilet paper against the gash in her forehead. She’d had another run-in with the resident queen bee, Leah, and her little band of followers, and Violet had not escaped unscathed. It was only her third day at Westfield, and her third nasty encounter with them. They had taken an instant and intense dislike to her, and she still wasn’t sure why. Their reasoning had been hard to discern, what with all the screaming when Violet spat in Leah’s face.

She smirked, and then winced as she pulled the paper away from her forehead. She leaned over the sink and examined the wound more closely in the mirror. The bleeding seemed to be slowing; Violet had bled all down the side of her face and onto her sweater walking from the quad to the bathroom. When she first saw her reflection in the cracked mirror, she was taken aback. Head wounds bled so much; she looked downright ghoulish. No wonder everyone had given her a wide berth in the hallway.

Violet touched a curious finger to the wound, her eyes watering as a sharp pain skated down her nerves. When she pulled gently on the smooth skin of her forehead, the fragile clotting and scabbing her body was trying to do frayed apart, and fresh blood welled up.

 _Cool_ , she thought.

Giving her bloodied reflection one last look, she donned her burgundy hat and slung her bag across her body. She wasn’t going to bother washing the blood out of her sweater. Then she’d just be damp and pathetic and humiliated. She’d rather let it dry brown and crusty on the fabric like a painted-on badge of honour that clearly said _fuck you_.

Pitching the bloodied toilet paper into the garbage can, Violet left the bathroom and wandered down the empty hallway in the direction of her American History class. She was already late, but who cared? Literally no one. Not even her parents cared; they barely noticed whether she went to school in the mornings. God forbid they take a breather from raking their failed marriage over the coals to take notice of something as insignificant as their daughter.

Not that Violet was willing to waste even an iota of brain power on them and their bullshit, of course.

Violet arrived at her classroom and paused outside the door. She could hear a deep voice droning like a hive of bees. It was the teacher, standing at the front of the room. She sighed. There was absolutely nothing worse than walking in late and having everyone stare at you. She wished she could be invisible, could just vaporize her way through the wall and find herself in a desk. 

Better yet, she wished she could just vaporize herself right the fuck out of this dump.

Violet knocked tentatively and opened the door, poking her head in. The teacher paused in his lesson and looked up at her with a disapproving frown.

“Sorry I’m late,” Violet mumbled half-heartedly.

The teacher reached for a sheet of paper on his desk and examined it for a moment before looking back up at her.

“You must be Violet Harmon,” he said. “Transfer from... Boston, is that correct?”

Thirty pairs of eyes focussed on her, and Violet wished desperately for this asshole to let her sit down already. She nodded.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll let the lateness slide this time, since you’re new. Don’t make it a habit. Your seat’s over there.” He pointed to a desk at the back of the class, the last one left unoccupied.

Without making eye contact with any of the slack-jawed morons gaping at her, she went to her desk and sat down, pulling out a notebook and a pen. Purely for appearances and for doodling, of course, as she did not plan on taking any notes.

Violet’s mind drifted away, buoyed by the monotonous sound of the teacher’s voice, her thoughts departing for pleasanter territory. She’d been zoned out for about ten minutes when she had the strangest sense that someone was staring at her. She blinked. The teacher was facing the blackboard, saying something about the early colonists of Virginia. Violet let her gaze wander around the classroom to find her classmates either bent over taking notes, or daydreaming like she had been. Why did it feel like someone was watching her?

As she turned to look at the row of desks next to her, by the window, she realised why. It was because someone _was_ watching her.

She hadn’t noticed him when she first sat down, but she couldn’t help but notice him now.

The boy next to her was staring at her, his dark eyes both intense and placid somehow, like he found her fascinating but couldn’t be bothered to say so, content instead to simply watch her. He didn’t seem bothered at all that she had caught him staring, either. He had messy blond hair, and looked like he didn’t make a habit of sleeping or bathing. His grunge clothes were too big for his wiry, boyish frame; he looked like a Kurt Cobain wannabe.

“What?” she mouthed at him.

His eyes dropped from her face, then, and when she followed the direction of his gaze, she realised that he was staring at her bared wrist where her long sleeve had bunched up on the desk. 

He was looking right at the crooked row of fencepost scars that hatched their way up her arm.

Her face burning, Violet snatched her arm off the desk and into her lap. He looked up in surprise, as if he’d forgotten she was alive and hadn’t expected her to move. Recovering, he smirked at her, and leaned over.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he whispered. “If you’re trying to kill yourself, you have to cut vertically. They can’t stitch that up.”

Violet stared at him, trying to formulate a response to that.

“Mr. Langdon, we’re discussing the disappearance of the colonists at Roanoke, but if you have something more interesting you’d like to talk about, by all means, share it with the class.”

The boy looked up to the front of the room, and Violet’s gaze followed. The teacher was glaring impatiently at them, his arms crossed over his chest. A few heads turned to crane their way.

 _Great_ , Violet thought, her eyes dropping to her desk. _This asswipe is going to tell the entire classroom that the weird new girl is a suicidal basket case. Fantastic. Why not?_

“I don’t have anything to say,” the boy mumbled. Violet glanced over to see him staring down at the notebook in front of him. The open page was covered in splotches of black ink, and it took a moment for Violet to see that they were doodles of birds in flight, their wings jagged and stark on the white paper.

“All right then,” the teacher continued wearily, “if you don’t mind, we’ll get back to the lesson. Now, the Governor at this time was John White, and he -”

But Violet wasn’t listening. She eyed the side of the boy’s head, the unkempt hair falling in his eyes. He turned then and smiled at her, a manic sort of smile completely unlike the smirk he levelled at her earlier. But there was something behind it, something quiet and soft and dark that beckoned to her, and just like that she wanted to know everything about him.

Violet forced her face into its best disdainful sneer.

“Fuck off, creep,” she mouthed, and turned away.

She didn’t look at him again for the rest of the class.

***

Violet walked home from school the long way, winding her way through unfamiliar neighbourhoods while smoking and contemplating the likelihood of getting completely lost but somehow miraculously taken in by people who weren’t self-absorbed assholes. When she found herself a block from home, she decided it was not to be, and turned her mind to figuring out which was actually worse – being stuck in her hellhole of a high school, or her hellhole of a home.

Given the way her parents had been since all the bullshit back in Boston, Violet had to declare it a stalemate.

Turning the corner onto her street, Violet exhaled a smoky sigh and flicked her cigarette into the hedge that lined their next door neighbour’s yard.

“Mind where you’re tossing your cigarette butts, young lady. My yew bushes are not a public trash receptacle.”

Violet stopped short to see a blond woman standing in the yard holding a pair of pinking shears, arms crossed over her chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

The woman didn’t reply, shading her eyes with one hand and tilting her head. She examined Violet in silence for a long moment, and then a brilliant smile broke out across her face like a footlight illuminating a stage.

“You must be Violet,” she said in a warmer tone than before, her voice all bourbon and branch water, like something out of _Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood_.

Violet nodded.

“Well don’t be shy,” said the woman. “We are neighbours, after all. I introduced myself to your lovely mother earlier. My name is Constance.”

“Nice to meet you,” Violet offered stiffly.

Constance came closer, her gaze dropping to Violet’s feet and back up.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” she said in a tone so smooth and bland that Violet wasn’t sure whether she was being complimented or not. She gave an indifferent shrug.

“Hm,” Constance said, tilting her head. “Not very sociable, I see. That’s teenagers for you. My son’s no better, holing himself up in that dark room of his all hours of the day and night. I tell him that fresh air is the best thing for him, that he ought to run track again, but does he listen to me? Of course not.” She paused, rubbing her arms beneath their pastel sweater set. She smiled again, and standing so close, Violet could see the strain around her mouth. “Youth is wasted on the young, I suppose.”

“I guess,” Violet replied, anxious to continue up to the house.

“Well,” Constance said, “you go on now and be a help to your mother. Moving house takes such a toll on a person.”

Violet nodded and gave what she hoped was something approaching a friendly smile before turning away and walking around the side of the house and in the kitchen door.

Her mom was sitting at the kitchen island, flipping through a magazine. She looked up when Violet came in.

“Hey, honey,” she said. “How was your day at schoo – is that blood?”

Violet stopped short, dismayed that her mom had seen. Maybe she should have tried to scrub the blood out at school, after all.

“What, this?” Violet said glibly, glancing down at the rusty brown bloodstains on her sweater. “That’s always been there.”

“Violet!” Vivien exclaimed, standing up and coming around the island. “Your face – what happened?”

Violet supposed she should have been moved or comforted by her mother’s concern, but she wasn’t. Instead she suddenly felt angry, blisteringly angry.

“You and dad’s joke of a marriage fell apart,” she snapped, “and you decided to move all of us across the entire country whether I liked it or not, and I had to start at a new high school in a new place full of assholes. That’s what happened.”

Vivien’s face fell, and she took a step back, as though Violet had shoved her. She swallowed and took a deep breath before looking up at Violet again. “Honey, I know this move has been hard on you, but -”

“If this is gonna be some ‘I hear that you’re angry and I respect that’ talk therapy bullshit you picked up from dad, I’m not interested.”

Violet turned and walked out of the kitchen, ignoring her mother’s shrill voice demanding that she come back. She passed by the closed doors of her father’s office – he obviously had a patient with him. She sailed up the stairs and down the hallway to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her with a satisfying bang.

The anger and the gleeful rush of acting on it abandoned her as abruptly as it had taken hold. She looked around the room, watching the dust motes sway in the beams of afternoon sun that slanted in through the windows. She wandered over to the stereo her parents had bought her as a “we’re sorry our family is circling the drain and our only solution is to drag you across the country” present. She pressed the play button, and the CD inside spun to life. The first angry strains of Hole’s “Violet” came out of the speakers, and Violet cracked a half smile. She cranked the volume; her mom couldn’t stand Hole.

Humming along, Violet went to her bed and knelt beside it, feeling around underneath it for the loose floorboard. Prying it up, she removed a brown leather men’s shaving kit.

She thought it was kind of ironic, in a way – most kids would have a stash of drugs in there if they had a stash at all. Yet hers was filled with nothing but shaving supplies. It was funny, if you thought about it.

Of course she had drugs too. But that was beside the point.

Leaving the stereo playing, she left the room and headed to the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she sat the shaving kit on the edge of the sink and opened it. She pondered its contents – a variety of sharp objects, some gauze and band-aids for the times she bled too much – and plucked out a razorblade. She held it up, admiring the way the soft afternoon light played on the edge of the blade. She scraped a fleck of dried blood off with her thumbnail, and wondered idly if one of these days she would cut herself and end up with some kind of freak infection or tetanus or something.

Violet lifted her other arm and shook her sleeve out of the way, turning her arm up to observe the row of scars. Some of them were new and pink, still raw-looking. Others had been there for a long time now. Years, actually.

She took a deep breath and settled into this familiar routine, her heart thudding and a sweet buzzing in her ears. She found a place midway up her arm to cut, drawing the blade across her skin. Her flesh opened and blood welled to the surface, and Violet stared down at the wound, feeling around inside herself to see whether she was calmer or sadder or happier or just nothing, nothing at all.

As a sluggish trickle of blood dripped down her arm to the white porcelain sink below, Violet knew that it was still just nothing.

Eventually she let her sleeve fall back down to cover her arm. She would have wiped the blood off first except her sweater was already probably ruined from the day’s carnage, so what did it matter?

Violet dropped the razorblade back into the shaving kit and caught sight of the last two joints her friend Chelsea had sent along with her when she left Boston. “For the road,” Chelsea had said, nodding solemnly as she pressed them into Violet’s hand.

One of the joints seemed as good a way to spend her evening as anything else she could think of, so she picked up the shaving kit and headed back to her bedroom, led there by Courtney Love’s voice.

Violet had closed the door and was halfway to her bed when she stopped and did a double take.

There was a boy standing by her stereo, perusing the haphazard stack of CDs beside it. Not just any boy, but the boy from her history class.

“You’ve got good taste in music,” he said without looking up from his examination. He had Radiohead’s _Pablo Honey_ in his hand, and was reading the back.

“How did you get in here?” Violet choked, completely taken aback by his intrusion into a place her parents barely dared enter. Not to mention his baffling nonchalance.

He glanced over at her. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“What -?”

“I’m one of your dad’s patients,” he said, turning slowly to face her. His blasé attitude disappeared, and his eyes were intent. “I should have introduced myself in class. My name’s Tate.”

“Violet,” she replied, still stunned.

“I know,” he said. He regarded her for a long moment, and Violet began to feel less affronted and more uncomfortable. “Why do you cut yourself?”

Violet gaped at him. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? It was bad enough that he knew about it; why did he want to talk about it?

“Here, look,” Tate said, taking a step closer to her. He shoved up the sleeve of his left arm, holding his wrist out to her. It was covered with a ladder of scars – some healed and puckered, some pink and scabbed – just like hers, but rougher, nastier. More violent.

Violet didn’t know what to say. She’d never met anyone like her before. Or, at least, not someone like her who was willing to show her that. She swallowed and lifted her eyes to meet his. He was watching her expectantly, waiting to see how she would respond.

“Um,” she said finally, her throat dry, “when did you start?”

“When I was a kid. I’m not sure when exactly,” he replied. His tone was calm, almost cheerful. He pointed to a particularly nasty scar halfway up his forearm. “This one was from when my dad left.”

Violet pulled at her own sleeve, revealing the bloody cut she’d just made. “First week of school,” she said, by way of explanation.

Tate nodded. “That place is the worst,” he said. He turned away, idly examining her bookshelves and the art she’d hung on her walls. It wasn’t much to look at; she hadn’t bothered to decorate much yet. Violet blew out a breath and sat down on the rag rug on her floor; standing there staring at him was making her feel awkward.

“This whole place is the worst,” she said, mostly to fill the silence. “I hate everyone. Everybody’s so fake, with all their bougie designer bullshit. The east coast is so much cooler. At least in Boston we had actual weather.”

“I love it when the leaves change,” Tate said.

“Me too!” Violet replied, delighted. It was one of the things she already missed about Boston; the weather in LA was way too warm and sunny for October, and all the non-native trees were the same washed-out dusty grey-green, like they couldn’t get enough water.

“Why’d you move here?” Tate asked, his attention turning to the blank chalkboard on her wall. He found a piece of chalk on the ledge and weighed it in his hand.

Violet frowned, making an inarticulate sound of disdain. “My parents’ marriage was bottoming out and they thought coming here would be a great ‘fresh start.’” She paused. Tate was leaning over, writing something on her chalkboard that she couldn’t see. She stared at his sweater-covered back, wondering how much she should say, how much she wanted him to know. “My dad had an affair with one of his students, and my mom found out. Like she literally caught him in the act.”

Tate turned around to look at her. “That’s horrible,” he said, sombre. “If you love someone you should never hurt them. Never.”

“Right?” Violet replied. “And the worst part is that six months ago, my mom had this brutal miscarriage. The baby was like seven months old and we had to have this macabre funeral. Have you ever seen a baby coffin?”

Tate’s eyes didn’t leave her as he came over, crouching down to sit cross-legged before her, taking her hand in his and running his fingers gently over the scars on her wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so sincere that Violet again found herself unsure how to respond. After a moment, she pulled her hand away and stood, walking to the stereo, which had fallen silent.

“Do you want to listen to The Smiths?” she asked, opening the jewel case for _The Queen Is Dead_ and glancing back over her shoulder at Tate. He sat watching her, picking at the fraying sleeve of his sweater.

“Got any Nirvana?” he asked, perking up.

Violet smirked. “Why doesn’t it surprise me than you’re a Cobain fan?”

“’Cause you’re a smart -”

“What are you doing in here?”

Violet turned to see her dad standing in the doorway, glaring down at Tate.

“We’re just listening to music, dad,” she replied, bewildered.

“You need to leave, Tate,” Ben said, not looking at Violet. “You shouldn’t be in here and I think you know that.”

Grudgingly, Tate got to his feet as Violet looked on, mortified. He walked to the doorway and stopped in front of Ben.

“What’s that thing you say I’m afraid of?” he asked, his voice so soft Violet almost couldn’t hear his words. “Fear of rejection?”

Ben said nothing, and Tate walked out, disappearing down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. As he stomped downstairs, Ben turned to Violet.

“Stay away from him,” he said, his voice inviting no argument. Violet bristled.

“Dad, nothing even happ -”

“You heard me!”

“Okay, then I guess you’re going to have to transfer me to a different history class. Or a different high school,” Violet snapped.

“What?”

“He goes to Westfield,” Violet replied. On her father’s blank look, she elaborated. “My high school? The place I’m forced to go every day? The state prison for adolescents?”

“Oh,” Ben breathed, his anger dissipating as his frown deepened. 

Violet rolled her eyes. Of course he hadn’t connected that they went to the same school. Bitterly, she wondered how a person with such shitty observational skills could make a living as a psychiatrist.

“Oh my god, don’t worry about your precious professional integrity. It’s not like it matters,” she said with a huff. “What am I gonna do, tell everyone at school that he’s my neighbour and he comes over to my house for his weekly head-shrink and electroshock therapy? What the fuck for? Everyone already thinks I’m a freak.”

“No, I don’t think you would tell anyone. But I am concerned about the two of you spending time together. Tate’s...” he broke off, rubbing his eyes. 

“Tate’s what?” Violet pressed. “And don’t feed me some bullshit about how he’s dangerous or something. Unless you’re trying to tell me that you’re treating violent psychopaths in our house, which, that sounds like a _great_ idea, dad.”

Ben gave her an exasperated look. “Just stay away from him, all right?”

Violet sighed and rolled her eyes, sick of the conversation. “I’ll do what I can. But I can’t help it that we go to the same school.”

“Okay,” her father agreed. He stood there, continuing to watch her with a worried expression.

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Violet frowned at him. “Any other draconian laws you need to lay down, or can I do my homework now?”

Ben held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Dinner’ll be ready in about an hour,” he said. “Your mom and I expect you to emerge from your cave for once to come eat with us, so we’ll see you then.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Violet stared at the closed door for a moment before heaving a deep sigh and glancing over at her chalkboard. On it, in tidy block letters, Tate had written the word _TAINT_. Violet eyed it for a beat, puzzled, and then pulled the joint out of her pocket, where she’d shoved it upon discovering Tate in her bedroom.

She was going to need _something_ to get her through a family dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

The rush of adrenalin Violet got from jamming her still-burning cigarette into the back of Leah’s hand propelled her through the crowd of onlookers in the cafeteria and into the anonymity and relative safety of the busy hallway. Violet felt like laughing; the grin on her face couldn’t be suppressed as the shriek of pain and outrage her bully had yelped bounced joyfully around in her head. Was there anything more satisfying than getting back at someone you hated, who took pleasure in tormenting you?

Violet hurried along the corridor, clutching the strap of her messenger bag where it lay across her chest. Burning that bitch had been great, but Violet wasn’t eager to stick around to see what was going to happen next.

She pushed open the heavy door at the end of the hall and emerged into a gloriously sunny California afternoon. With a sigh, she reached into her bag and fished out a cigarette, lighting it as she walked across the grounds to the student parking lot. She missed Boston and its harbour grey skies and rain, its driving wet snow and slush. The freakishly nice weather here just couldn’t compare.

Violet turned down the back lane that connected the student parking lot to the main street ahead. She was done with school for today at the very least. She didn’t know what she was going to tell her parents, who would both undoubtedly be at home to give her shit, but she’d think of something.

“Hey little girl, you want some candy?”

Violet had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the car approach her from behind. She jumped in surprise, turning around.

Tate was leaning out the driver’s side window of a beat up brown Chevette.

“Perv,” she said, hoping her tone was indifferent enough. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Maybe,” Tate replied. 

“Do a lot of girls go for that?” Violet asked, raising her eyebrows and gesturing with her cigarette. “Is that your best panty-dropping line?”

A smile pulled sharply at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head. “Nope.”

“Nope, not a lot of girls go for that, or nope, it’s not your best panty-dropping line?”

“Both,” he said. “You want a ride?”

In the midst of their somewhat weird flirtation, Violet hesitated for a moment, remembering her dad’s warning. But the boy in the driver’s seat with his flannel shirt and ripped jeans, his hair in his eyes, as Billy Corgan’s voice wailed plaintively from the radio, seemed anything but threatening.

“Sure, if it’s not out of your way,” Violet said.

An odd look passed over Tate’s face, and then he smiled that weird, Cheshire Cat smile he had, his eyes bright. “It’s not,” he replied simply.

Tossing her cigarette to the pavement, Violet went around the car and climbed in the passenger seat. 

“Buckle up,” Tate said, taking his foot off the brake. “Safety first.”

Violet rolled her eyes and fastened her seat belt. Tate pressed on the gas and Violet watched as the bland mid-century modern suburban brick building of her high school shrunk in the rearview mirror. She smiled, and Billy Corgan sang about pink ribbon scars and regrets.

“You ever notice how this song sounds cheerful, but the lyrics are actually about being really fucking depressed?” Violet asked.

“Yeah,” Tate replied, not taking his eyes off the road. “Not everybody gets that.”

“I know.” Violet looked out her window, watching ranch houses and bungalows pass by as they approached her neighbourhood. “Don’t you have class this afternoon?”

“Nope,” Tate replied. “You?”

“Yeah, but I kinda figured I might be better off making myself scarce.”

“I saw what you did to Leah,” Tate said.

“You did?” Violet replied, unable to keep the eagerness out of her voice. The thought of him seeing her fight off her bullies made a strange little thrill stir in the pit of her stomach.

“Yeah, me and everyone else,” Tate said. He gave a hollow laugh. “Stupid fucks love a good beatdown as long as they’re not the ones getting their asses kicked.”

“Ugh, this place is so full of assholes,” Violet complained, letting her head fall back against the headrest. “I wish we’d never moved here. I hate everything about this stupid place.”

Silence fell in the car as the final chords of “Today” faded away. The radio DJ began talking, and Tate reached over, jabbing a button and silencing the raucous voice.

“You hate everything about living here?” Tate asked, glancing at her. Violet picked up his meaning and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“Maybe not absolutely everything,” she replied. Tate eyed her for a beat and then smiled, a soft and genuine smile that almost looked out of place on his face.

They spent the rest of the ride in a stretch of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Tate could have kept driving for days and Violet wouldn’t have minded at all.

Tate turned onto her street, and Violet was about to thank him for the ride when he pulled into Constance’s driveway and killed the motor.

“Um, I don’t think you can park here,” Violet said, confused.

“Sure I can,” Tate replied. “I live here.”

“What?” Violet said. She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before recovering. “Oh my god, you live _next door_ to me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t have time. Your dad was kicking me out.”

“And the five minutes of complete silence that just went by was an inadequate amount of time for you to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I live next door to you’?”

“I’m sorry,” Tate said, shrugging. He didn’t sound apologetic.

“You’re kind of an asshole,” Violet observed.

“So are you,” he replied, not seeming offended in the slightest.

Violet rolled her eyes, and looked to check whether her dad’s car was in the driveway. It was. She sighed, already weary of the confrontation to come.

“What’s wrong?” Tate asked.

“My parents are going to bitch me out for skipping school, that’s all,” she replied. “But thanks for the -”

“You can come hide out at my place,” Tate said, interrupting her. His words rushed out in a jumble, like he wanted to say them before he could think twice. Violet regarded him. His expression was uncertain, and she could tell he was waiting for her to turn him down. 

When presented with the choice between her parents’ feeble attempts at discipline and an afternoon spent in Tate’s company, there really was no debate.

“Sure,” she said, lifting her shoulders in an ambivalent shrug. “You seem like the kind of guy who keeps lots of weird shit in his room. I’m up for that.”

Tate led her into the house, which was much smaller and humbler than her own, a classic craftsman-style bungalow. It was quiet and dark inside, a cool reprieve from the hot afternoon sun. The air was stale, and it smelled of Pine Sol and cigarettes, with an undertone of flowery potpourri. Tate walked briskly to the back of the house, past the living room and the kitchen, without stopping. Violet tried to take in her surroundings as she followed him, but the tidy, traditional rooms seemed to contain no trace of the boy in front of her. 

As they passed a narrow table against the hallway wall, a framed portrait caught Violet’s eye and she stopped. It was a photo of Tate and a girl with dark hair, on a beautiful summer day. They were smiling.

“Who’s this?” she asked, picking up the frame to examine it more closely.

Tate stopped, turning around. When Violet glanced up from the photo, she found him frowning down at it. He took it from her, his fingers brushing against hers.

“That’s me and Addie, my sister,” he said, his thumb leaving a humid fingerprint on the glass as he replaced it on the table. His tone was guarded but contained no meanness. He looked up. “She has Down’s,” he continued, watching her closely.

“She has a great smile,” Violet replied. “Does she live with you?”

Tate just looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. She’s at her day program right now.”

“Cool. So do I get to see your bedroom? Or do I have to wait out here while you clean up all the dirty underwear and porn and used Kleenexes?”

Tate gaped at her, and then let out a shaky bark of laughter. “No, come on.”

They continued down the hallway until he stopped at the next to last door. Violet expected signs or posters to warn parental visitors away, but the door was clean, painted in the same pale yellow colour as the rest of the trim in the hallway.

Tate opened the door and Violet followed him, and as she crossed the threshold the thought occurred to her that she was in a stranger’s house all alone, that no one knew where she was, that she knew nothing about this boy except that he was a patient of her father’s and that he had a penchant for trespassing.

Violet stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and took a long look around.

Tate’s bedroom was surprisingly neat, no piles of laundry or stacks of dirty dishes to be seen. His bed was made and there were a few textbooks on his desk. Over his bed hung a Nirvana poster, the cover of _In Utero_. Violet went closer, examining it. She loved that cover; the plastic organs on display fascinated her.

When she turned around, Tate was leaning back against his desk chair, watching her.

“I love ‘Heart-Shaped Box,’” Violet offered, breaking the silence that had descended between them.

“’All Apologies’ is my favourite,” Tate replied. 

“What a shocker,” Violet said, walking over to where he stood. She stopped right next to him, almost too close, to check out the junk tacked to the bulletin board on his wall. She wanted to see if he would move away from her. He didn’t.

Violet leaned back and glanced down to see that one of the desk drawers wasn’t closed all the way, something blocking it. Feeling bold, she reached down and grasped it, tugging it out of the drawer.

“What’s this?” she asked, extracting a piece of red, white and blue striped grosgrain ribbon.

Tate gave a sort of displeased grunt and shook his head. “It’s nothing, Violet, don’t -”

Violet pulled, and dangling from her hand was a medal for a track event the previous year. She looked up to see Tate watching her anxiously, his expression hovering somewhere between embarrassment and annoyance.

“You run track?” she asked.

“Used to,” he replied, defensive. “Look, it’s stupid, just -”

“It’s not stupid. It’s cool – you got first place. You were good at it. Why’d you stop?”

Tate didn’t reply. He reached down and gently took the medal from her, staring down at it. He ran his thumb over the engraved words on its shiny surface – _First Place_.

“Last year wasn’t a great year,” he said, leaning down past Violet and dropping the medal back into the drawer before closing it. When he straightened up, he was standing right in Violet’s space, toe to toe, looking down at her. 

Violet didn’t flinch or step back. “Is that why you’re seeing my dad?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you like to answer questions with questions to avoid actually answering them,” she replied.

At that, he nearly smiled. “You sound like your dad. Do you eavesdrop on his sessions? Isn’t that some kind of breach of people’s privacy?”

“Probably,” Violet shrugged, turning away to check out the pile of CDs and tapes by his stereo. “But it’s interesting. And it’s not like I’d tell people anything I heard. Who would I tell?”

“You ever eavesdrop on me?”

Violet was reading the liner notes of _Superunknown_ by Soundgarden. She looked up at Tate, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s pretty conceited of you. You’re too boring to bother eavesdropping on.”

Tate didn’t reply. He just looked at her, worry entering his expression. Violet grinned.

“I’m kidding. I’ve never eavesdropped on you. And I won’t, either, now that we’re friends. Maybe before when you were just some weirdo guy from my school...” she trailed off, still smiling at him.

“Are we friends?” he asked, unsmiling. He didn’t seem to be picking up on Violet’s teasing.

“Sure, why not,” she replied. “You’re more tolerable than most of the dumb shits around here.”

The backhanded compliment seemed to please him and he relaxed, leaning back against his desk once again. Violet eyed his downturned blond head before her eyes slid to the side and she noticed a piece of notepaper tacked to his bulletin board. She walked over and removed the thumbtack, pressing it back into the cork as she held the paper in her hands, looking down at the black birds flying chaotically across the page.

“This is what you were drawing, the other day,” she said, glancing at him. “Do you like to draw? You’re good at it.”

Tate gave a noncommittal shrug. “You can keep -”

“Why is there a girl in your room, Tate?”

Violet jumped. Constance stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. Violet hadn’t even heard her enter the house or open Tate’s bedroom door.

“This is Violet,” Tate mumbled. “She just moved in next door.”

“Yes, I have made Violet’s acquaintance already. But what is she doing in your bedroom? And why was the door closed?”

“We were just –” Violet began to defend them both, but Constance held up her hand.

“I am not interested in your justifications, young lady,” she said, giving a shake of her perfectly coifed head. 

“We’re in the same history class,” Tate said, his voice low and steely. “Violet’s new, and I was going to help her get caught up.”

“Well,” Constance huffed, disbelieving. “I’m not sure any girl who would go into a young man’s bedroom is someone you ought to be spending time with.” She eyed them both, a canny expression in her eyes. “But I suppose you’re just being neighbourly.”

Tate didn’t reply, glaring furiously down at his shoes.

“But we’ll leave the door open,” Constance said. “I wouldn’t want Mrs. Harmon thinking I’m not a trustworthy chaperone.”

Constance left, and Violet turned to Tate, about to make a quip about his mother being a weird relic from the ‘50s, but the words died in her mouth when she saw the dark expression on his face. She stared, surprised by the depth of the anger she found there.

“You should go,” Tate said, still glowering down at the floor.

“Okay,” Violet replied softly. Just like that, the spell had been broken and she was only too willing to leave, even if it meant dealing with her parents. She held out the piece of notepaper between her fingers. “Can I keep this?”

Tate looked down at her hand, and then back up. Violet was surprised to see that his eyes were damp. She stared; she didn’t know what to say.

“Yeah, keep it,” Tate said, his eyes sad.

Violet merely nodded and left the room without another word, grabbing her bag and slipping silently out the back door of the house without encountering Constance.

When she entered her own house, she found her parents locked in another heated argument of hissed, angry whispers – for her benefit, she supposed, which was hilarious – in the kitchen, and so she was able to retreat to her bedroom without having to endure another empty lecture, without even being noticed.

In her room, she threw her bag down by the door and went to her stereo, flipping through her CDs until she found The Cranberries’ _Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?_ Violet popped open the door and put the CD in before tapping it shut and hitting the play button. She went to her bed, sprawling across it on her stomach, and pulled the piece of notepaper from her pocket.

She opened it, trying to decide what to do with it, whether to display it or tuck it away somewhere safe where no one would see it except her. She looked down at the pale blue ink lines and the dark black scribbled birds, and her breath caught in her throat.

The black shapes weren’t birds at all. They were splatters of blood.

***

Violet was late for English Lit, but given that her face and arms were scratched all to shit and she was pretty sure part of her scalp had been yanked off her head when Leah grabbed a handful of her hair during lunch, she found she didn’t much care.

Walking down the empty hallway, she considered skipping the rest of the afternoon and going home again, but she was already in shit with her parents for the other day. As it turned out, Westfield was vigilant enough to let parents know when their kids were missing classes, but not vigilant enough to prevent savage beatings in the quad at noon.

With a sigh, Violet made for the library, electing to hide out there until her next class. At least she’d only get shit for missing one class today.

There were only a handful of people in the library, spread out at the tables and in the stacks, with the early afternoon sunshine slanting in through the high windows. Violet liked the library; it was the only place in the school that wasn’t completely horrible. 

It was also the only place she could be certain never to encounter Leah and her little band of sycophants.

Violet walked down the stacks, running her fingers along the ridges of dust-jacketed book spines. She wandered her way through the Dewey Decimal System until she came to the end of a row of shelves and found an isolated study area populated by a few old, ugly orange couches and a couple of tables.

At one of the tables sat Tate, his blond head bent down over the book in front of him.

Violet hesitated, watching him as he turned a page and rested his elbow on the table. She hadn’t talked to him in a couple of days, or even seen him around. Things had been left somewhat strange between them, what with his mom implying that she was a slut and all.

She was considering turning around and finding another place to hide in the library when Tate looked up. Immediately she felt her face flush, but Tate smiled, tipping his head to gesture her over.

Violet went, not knowing what else to do, and took the empty seat beside him.

He closed the book in front of him, an anthology of Romantic poetry. For a class, Violet guessed, but she didn’t have time to ask, for Tate was frowning at her, reaching over to brush her hair out of her face.

“Did _she_ do that to you?” he asked softly, taking in the scratches on her face.

“Yeah,” Violet whispered back, rolling her eyes. “I have _got_ to figure out a way to get that bitch off my case.”

“People can be such assholes,” Tate replied. His voice dropped lower, and he leaned in. “What would you do to get back at her, if you were going to?”

“Kill her,” Violet said with a cavalier shrug.

Tate had gone very still, watching her closely. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’d blow her brains out, if I could just get my hands on a gun,” Violet deadpanned. Tate’s expression was rapt, and Violet grinned. “Jesus, I’m kidding – I wouldn’t actually kill her. I’m not a psycho.”

Tate blinked. “I know,” he said. He looked back down at the book in front of him for a moment, and then slid a sideways glance her way. “But it would be pretty great if she left you alone, though, right?”

“It would be fantastic,” Violet replied on a sigh. “Doubt it, though. I just want everyone to leave me alone, really. I’m sick of the hassle, you know?”

Tate nodded in commiseration. “You got class this afternoon?”

“Yeah, Civics. You?”

“Chemistry,” Tate replied. There was a pause, and Violet wondered if perhaps he wanted to be left alone to study or read. But Tate raised his eyebrows and leaned closer to her. “There’s a book here about famous LA murders, and it has lots of crime scene photos and shit. I found it last year when I was doing research for a history paper. Wanna go find it?”

Violet smiled, feeling her spirits lift considerably. “Yeah, totally. Does it have stuff about the Black Dahlia?”

“Of course,” Tate replied, his expression splitting open into a grin. He stood up from the desk, and held out his hand.

Violet would rather have eaten glass than admit it, but when she put her hand in Tate’s and felt his fingers wrap loosely around hers as he pulled her up from her chair, a warm sensation pulsed through her chest, and she was grateful to finally have a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Violet ignored her classmates as they entered the classroom, noisily finding their seats around her. She had been uncharacteristically early for class, due entirely to her avoiding the quad over her lunch hour, preferring to lay low in the girls’ bathroom down the corridor from her American History classroom. Now she sat doodling in the margins of her textbook, waiting for class to start. Off an illustration of the Founding Fathers in the book, she drew a speech bubble. She was writing “fuck you” inside of it when she heard a scoff from her left. Violet looked up to see Tate drop himself into the desk beside hers, grinning.

“I think there’s a pretty hefty fine for defacing school property,” Tate said, nodding down at her textbook. “Maybe even detention.”

“Oh no,” Violet replied drily. “The threat of my parents having to cut a cheque to the school should keep me on the straight and narrow.”

Tate guffawed, leaning closer. “Where were you at lunch? I looked for you.”

“Important meeting with the guidance counsellor about my bright future in business administration, of course.” 

Tate gave her a dubious look, and Violet smiled. She looked down at her textbook, finishing her addendum to the book’s illustrations with a flourish of blue ink. 

“I was having lunch with my favourite eating companion, the last toilet on the left in the second floor girls’ bathroom,” she said with a wry shrug. She didn’t look up, but she could tell Tate was examining her all the same. He did that – he stared in a penetrating way that was at once discomfiting and oddly flattering. Sourly, Violet supposed her dad would conclude that she suffered from a lack of positive attention if she found Tate’s impolite staring to be _flattering_.

“Kinda gross,” Tate said, after a moment of silence, “eating your lunch in the bathroom.”

“I don’t care,” Violet replied, glancing at him. “The lunches Moira packs for me are kinda gross to begin with. I’d buy lunch here but that would require me to actually go to the cafeteria. No thanks.”

Tate regarded her with an odd sort of expression on his face, as though her words had made him think of some long-forgotten thing, his brows drawing together for a brief moment before smoothing out. He cleared his throat. “Who’s Moira?” he asked.

“Our housekeeper,” Violet replied. She shrugged one shoulder. “She’s kind of a weird old prude, but she’s nice, I guess. Not that we even need a housekeeper, but I guess she’s been helping my mom out a lot or whatever.”

Tate nodded, but said nothing, and then their teacher entered the room and class began, and there was no opportunity to talk. Not until the end of class when the bell rang and Violet gathered her things and turned to ask Tate if he could give her a ride home. The words died on her lips as she stared in surprise at his empty desk.

He had already gone.

***

Violet closed the front door behind her mother, and slid the lock into place. She stood in the foyer and watched as the headlights of her father’s car passed over the front of the house, glaring in her eyes through the stained glass as the car pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the street.

Her parents were going to their weekly couples’ counselling session, which for Violet meant one thing: freedom.

She enjoyed the silence for a moment – even Moira had gone home for the day – and then retreated to her bedroom to crank her stereo as loud as she wanted, and to read the book she’d taken out of the school library the other day, without any nosy parents poking their heads into her room and interrupting her with a nauseatingly sincere, “Can we talk?”

Violet had been sprawled across her bed on her stomach for half an hour, reading a chapter about some of the bloodier early Hollywood scandals, when she heard it.

_Tap tap tap. Thump._

Violet sat up, marking her place in the book with her index finger. 

_Tap tap tap. Scrape._

Standing, she went to her stereo and turned it off to listen. The house was silent, utterly so, and Violet released a tense breath, feeling silly for being bothered even a moment by the sounds a curious old house was bound to make.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Violet scowled. She loved the house, but sometimes the sounds were like something out of a shitty horror movie. She tossed her book onto the bed and walked out of her bedroom, down the hallway to the grand staircase that led down into the foyer. 

She went down the stairs and paused at their foot, her hand resting on the newel post. She strained to hear where the sounds were coming from.

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

Violet’s head swung around in the direction of the noise, and she was surprised to see the door to the basement was open. She was sure it had been closed when she had gone upstairs earlier, but the sound was definitely coming from down there. Violet swallowed, a thread of nervousness finding its way into her chest. She had only been down the basement once since they moved in, and it was creepy.

Not that she was afraid, of course.

Violet walked into the living room and grabbed the fire iron from its stand next to the brick fireplace. She tightened her hand around it, testing its weight, and then turned and walked to the top of the basement stairs. She flicked on the light and, taking a deep breath, began to descend. Each stair creaked under her weight, and Violet wanted to roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.

She stood at the base of the stairs and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. 

_Thump._

Violet pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose, annoyed. All this and it was probably just a possum or something.

“Who’s there?” she said.

Silence greeted her, and Violet held her breath as it lingered, and lingered, and lingered. She exhaled in a rush. _This is so stupid_ , she thought.

_Bang!_

Violet’s eyes shot up to the unfinished basement ceiling of exposed pipes and wooden beams. The sound had come from upstairs.

Tightening her grip on the fire iron, she took the stairs two at a time and came out into the hallway. There was no one there. She walked towards the front of the house and turned to go down the corridor that led to the dining room. She came around the corner, and –

“You’re gonna die in here.”

Biting back the yelp that leapt up her throat, Violet spun around to see a dark-haired girl standing in the middle of the hallway as if she had appeared out of nowhere. Violet took a step back, loosening her hold on the makeshift weapon in her hand. She recognized the girl.

“Addie?”

Addie blinked, a grin spreading across her face. “Are you Violet?”

Violet exhaled heavily, letting her arms fall to her sides and the iron fall to the floor with a clatter. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “How did you get in here?”

“The back door was unlocked,” Addie replied cheerfully.

Violet frowned; she was sure that wasn’t true. Her mom was pretty vigilant about keeping the doors locked; there had been a violent home invasion in an adjacent neighbourhood a few weeks ago that had freaked Vivien out, and she was even talking about having one of those electronic security systems installed.

“Okay, but you can’t just -” Violet began, but Addie interrupted her.

“Are you Tate’s girlfriend?” she asked, her expression turning sly.

Violet arched an eyebrow. “No, I’m not Tate’s girlfriend. We’re friends.”

“Tate likes you,” Addie said, grinning. “A _lot_. He told me. He wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Violet felt herself blush. “Are you guys close?”

“Of course!” Addie replied, rolling her eyes. “Do you have a brother?”

Violet thought of her baby brother who never lived even a day, and of the tiny white coffin and the funeral, and of her mother, who hadn’t been the same since. She swallowed.

“Nope,” she shrugged. “I’m an only child. Lucky me.”

“I love having brothers,” Addie said.

Violet frowned and was about to ask what she meant by _brothers_ , plural, but Addie was off, talking about Halloween and something about a Snoopy costume. They went into the kitchen, and Violet got them each a glass of water, listening to Addie chat happily away as she contemplated how to handle the fact that their neighbour had obviously found some way to break into the house.

“My parents are gonna be home soon,” Violet said eventually. “And I’m sure your mom is looking for you. I’ll walk you home.”

“My mom knows where I am,” Addie replied confidently. But she stood up all the same, and they went out through the kitchen door, which Violet made sure to lock behind her. 

It was dusk, and the side yards separating the houses were dark, and it was as they came around from the back of Violet’s house that she spotted the flashing lights.

There was a police car in the Langdons’ driveway.

“Uh oh,” Addie said, her carefree expression replaced with a troubled frown.

The kitchen light was on, and Addie made a beeline across the yard to the back door. At a loss, Violet followed her, entering the house just behind her to find Constance sitting at the kitchen table, lit cigarette in hand, and two uniformed officers standing by the stove.

“There you are,” Constance said, not getting up from her seat. She levelled an impatient look at Addie. “I was beginning to think I’d have to ask these nice young men to go out looking for you, drag you home by your hair.” She glanced at one of the officers. “My little monster is a handful. She’d try the patience of a saint.”

The officer merely gave Constance a tight smile.

“Sorry,” Violet began, “I should have brought her home earlier. If I’d known you’d call the polic -”

“Go on now and get ready for bed like a good girl,” Constance said to Addie, who didn’t need to be told twice. She disappeared down the hallway without a backward glance. Constance turned to Violet. “It grieves me to say it, Violet, but for once the police aren’t here about Adelaide and her little pastime of breaking and entering.”

“Are you Violet Harmon?” asked one of the officers, his interest piqued. The other officer turned and looked at her as if noticing her presence for the first time.

“Yes,” Violet replied, cautious. “What the hell’s going on?”

“You’ll watch your language under my roof, missy, if you don’t mind,” Constance said, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“Ma’am, we’ll handle this,” one of the officers said. Constance gave an acquiescent nod and her sharp gaze slid away as she held her cigarette to her lips.

“Miss Harmon, do you know a Leah Stevens?”

“Yeah,” Violet replied. She frowned. “I mean, kind of. She goes to my school.”

“And how would you characterize your acquaintance?”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked, wary.

“What kinds of interactions have you had with her?” the officer elaborated.

Violet hesitated, but could see no compelling reason to lie. “I’m new, and Leah and her friends hate me for some reason, so they pick on me.”

“Pick on you?”

“Yeah, pick on me,” Violet repeated, becoming impatient. “You know, kicking my ass at lunch, or trying to, at least, pulling my hair out, spreading rumours that I’m a Satanist and a lesbian, generally making my life miserable. That kind of thing. Why?”

“You see,” Constance said, gesturing at Violet. “Tate was telling the truth. He was simply trying to defend his little friend Violet from these nasty, common girls.”

“Tate?” Violet asked. “What does this have to do with Tate?”

The officer sighed. “Mrs. Langdon, please allow us to speak to Miss Harmon. We don’t want to have to take this down to the station.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with Tate Langdon?” the other officer asked.

“We’re friends,” Violet replied. She was starting to feel defensive, and irritated that no one was telling her what was going on. “We have American History together, so he’s been helping me catch up. What, is that a crime now?”

The officer sighed tiredly. “I think we have all we need for right now. We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Langdon.”

“Very well,” Constance said. “You can show yourselves out.”

The officers departed without another word, and Violet was left staring at Constance in the harsh glare cast by the overhead kitchen light. Constance stubbed her cigarette out in the ash tray on the table.

“There has been an _incident_ ,” she said slowly, dealing each word out with care, like cards in a game of bridge.

“What kind of incident?” Violet asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“This young woman, Leah whomever, has _alleged_ that Tate followed her home from school today and assaulted her in an alley by her home.”

“Assaulted?” Violet echoed, a sick sensation twisting her stomach.

“Her parents called the police and they picked Tate up on his way back to the school to get his car. She’s fine; only some scratches or what have you, but it seems her parents feel the need to press charges.”

 _No shit_ , Violet thought, although she was no great fan of Leah’s. But she said nothing.

“When they questioned him, Tate admitted to having attacked her, and he said that he did it because Leah has been harassing you at school. Is that true?”

The sick sensation in Violet’s gut intensified as she recalled their conversation in the library. “Yeah, it’s true. Leah’s been tormenting me every day since I started at Westfield. But I never asked Tate to do anything.”

Constance scrutinized her for a moment, and then leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I believe you. Tate does not... That is, Tate can be rather impulsive. Particularly when it comes to protecting someone he cares about. He does not handle these situations well. He never has.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Violet asked.

“Oh, a slap on the wrist, I’ve no doubt,” Constance replied. “I’m told it will be a help that he’s receiving counselling for his... troubles, and that he was attempting to defend you, after a fashion. He’ll be suspended from school for some time, perhaps expelled.” She sighed heavily and pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I grow tired of this, but it is my lot.”

Violet stared, uncertain what to say. The sound of the clock on the wall ticking the seconds away seemed as loud as a gong in the silent room. Finally, she swallowed drily.

“I can get Tate’s homework while he’s suspended, if you want,” she offered. “So he doesn’t fall behind.”

Constance lifted her head, and her cheeks were damp with tears. She smiled brilliantly, swiping at the wetness with the backs of her hands.

“Why, that would be lovely of you, Violet,” Constance said, her voice all syrupy sweet tea again. “Tate is fortunate indeed to have a friend like you.”

Violet wasn’t sure about that, but she smiled tightly and left soon after with a tattered copy of Tate’s class schedule. She cut between the houses in the darkness. Once inside her house, she locked all of the doors, pacing the floors and checking them three times. She didn’t know what exactly she was trying to keep out.

She went upstairs to her room and curled up in her bed, tucking Tate’s schedule into the front of the book she’d been reading. Pushing the strange events of the evening from the forefront of her mind, she opened the book where she’d left off, and turned the page to a chapter about infamous haunted houses in LA. First among them was Murder House, a post-World War One Tudor Gothic mansion in Mid-City.

Violet stared down at the page in front of her, trying to comprehend what she was seeing.

There, in grainy black and white, was the house.

Her house.

***

Violet sat on the rug on her bedroom floor, listening to the new Portishead album she’d picked up on her way home from school. That and a fresh pack of cigarettes were about all that was keeping her sane as she half-assed her way through yet another profoundly inane assignment she was supposed to find challenging.

There was a knock on the door, and she sighed. The last thing she wanted right now was a talk with either of her parents. If it wasn’t some bullshit reassurance about how their fighting didn’t mean they didn’t love her (as if she gave a shit,) it would be a lecture about how she needed to trust her dad’s judgment and stay away from Tate. As Tate’s psychiatrist, her father had been informed of the whole Leah incident, and he wasn’t happy.

“Go away,” she called through the door. “I’m studying.”

The door opened, and Violet glanced up to see the scuffed white toe of a Converse sneaker in the doorway. Tate.

“Hey,” he said, his head poking into the room. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Violet replied, setting her textbook aside. “Yeah, just – close the door, okay?”

Tate came into the room and closed the door behind him. He hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the cuff of his flannel shirt.

“Thanks for getting my homework for me,” he said finally. 

Violet nodded. “How long are you suspended for?”

“Two weeks,” he replied. “Then I’m on probation until forever. They said I’m lucky I didn’t get expelled.”

Violet regarded him, trying to figure him out. He stood there with a wary, hangdog expression on his face, as though he feared what she might say. “Can I ask you something?” she said, after a pause.

“Of course,” Tate replied.

“Were you trying to kill her?”

“No,” Tate said emphatically, shaking his head. He came over and sat down in front of her, cross-legged, and took her hand in his. “I swear, Violet. I was just trying to scare her.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a bully! I was giving her a taste of her own medicine! It’s the only thing they understand,” he replied. “She was tormenting you, _hurting_ you. Who knows who else she’s been torturing for fun! It’s not right.”

“I never asked you to do that for me,” Violet said. “I don’t need you to come to my rescue – I was handling it.”

Tate dropped her hand, his expression darkening. “Yeah, taking an ass-kicking from them every lunch hour is really handling it.”

“Who are you, my dad?” Violet replied, annoyed. “I said I don’t need you to come to my rescue. We barely even know each other.”

“But I thought -”

“Tate, you can’t just go around attacking people! If you’re gonna do weird shit like that, I don’t think we can be friends.”

Tate glowered at her for a moment, and then stood. 

“Fine,” he said, his voice angry. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

“That is what I want,” Violet snapped, looking down and retrieving her book from the floor. 

Tate stood in the open doorway for a moment, looking back at her. Violet kept her eyes down, ignoring him. He turned and left without another word. When she allowed herself to look up, the doorway was empty.

 _Good_ , Violet thought bitterly. _Whatever._

Telling him off quieted the anxiety that had been plaguing her since the moment she walked in the Langdons’ door and found cops in their kitchen. But now, the anxiety was quietly replaced with something else: sadness that the only friend she’d managed to make was apparently a short-tempered jerk with impulse control issues, and disappointment at the realisation that she was now back to having absolutely no one to talk to.

Life sucked.


	4. Chapter 4

With her dad away at a conference in Boston and her mom transparently paranoid that he was actually there screwing his ex-mistress, the following weekend was a tense one at home. If Violet had had any friends at all, she would have made a point of being out of the house. But seeing as Tate was the closest thing to a friend she had and she hadn’t seen him since telling him off over a week ago, she was out of luck, and found herself confined to the house with her mom.

Her mom, whose wounded expression Violet couldn’t get out of her head. Vivien was lonely and lost, anxious about her marriage and her perilous new pregnancy, and all she wanted was to reconnect with Violet. Violet understood her feelings all too well. But she couldn’t stand it, how her mom had forgiven her dad so easily, how she was acting like her pregnancy was the best news ever.   
Every time Violet looked at her mom lately, all she felt was contempt. 

That feeling had spilled over into words, with Violet accusing Vivien of being weak, and now Vivien barely acknowledged her except in the most polite, necessary terms. Violet was sorry; her mom wasn’t the one in this family who deserved her ire. But she couldn’t apologise, wouldn’t. So she sat alone in her room, reading and listening to music and contemplating forcing a break in the monotony with a new cut to her forearm.

Violet flipped through the book from the school library, which was now overdue. She returned for the dozenth time to the all too short blurb about her house, rereading the words yet again. It talked of the original owners; they had died in a murder-suicide after the disappearance of their infant son. It talked of the murder of some student nurses in the late ‘60s. It talked of the revolving door of owners and tenants, and of the “mysterious happenings” that plagued the house. But there was nothing specific, no real details, just a lot of vague bullshit. The house was strange – that much was obvious. But what was its real story?

With a disgusted snort, Violet closed the book and tossed it aside. What was the point of writing about all of these supposed horrible events in the house’s history if you weren’t going to report all the gory details?

The doorbell rang. Violet ignored it, knowing that if Moira had gone home for the night, her mom would answer it. The CD in her stereo spun to a stop with a soft click, and Violet rolled off the bed to change it. She flipped through her CDs and was about to put on Violent Femmes when the doorbell rang again.

Violet frowned, and popped the CD back into its case. She listened to the silence, wondering why her mom wasn’t answering the door. Then there was a loud bang, followed by the sound of someone pounding on the front door.

“Mom?” she called. There was no answer, and so Violet went to her door and poked her head out into the hallway. The pounding downstairs continued, and she walked out into the hallway. The noise stopped abruptly.

“Violet? Violet! Answer me!”

Frowning, Violet went down the stairs to the landing, where she found her mom halfway up, her hand on the banister.

“What’s wrong?” Violet asked, taking in Vivien’s anxious expression.

“Where’s the cordless?” 

“Upstairs. Why, what’s - ”

“Go upstairs, lock yourself in your bedroom, and call 911.”

“What? Mom -” but Violet was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing again.

“Now, Violet!”

Violet turned and dashed up the stairs, grabbing the cordless phone from its stand in the hallway as she made her way to her bedroom. Whoever it was out there had begun pounding on the front door again. Violet flipped the phone over and began to dial, surprised to find that her hands were shaking. The sound of her bedroom door creaking made her turn around. 

There was a woman standing in the doorway.

Violet couldn’t help it; she screamed. The strange young woman stepped forward, knocking the phone from her hands. It hit the floor and skittered under the bed. The woman was sallow-faced and thin, but taller than Violet and surprisingly strong as she wrapped her arms around her and dragged her from the room.

“Get the fuck off me!” Violet hissed, her fear turning to anger. She kicked her feet, catching one of the tables in the hallway and knocking it over, struggling as she tried to free her arms. But the woman was immoveable, her arms like a band as she hauled Violet down the stairs and dumped her on the living room floor.

Vivien was there too, crouched on the floor with a man standing over her, one hand pressed to a bloody wound at her hairline.

“I have money,” Vivien was saying, her voice shaking. “You can have whatever you want , just - ”

“They have money,” the woman snickered, glancing at her companion. He scoffed.

“We’ll get that later,” he said. “But we don’t care about money. We’re here for the house.”

“The house?” Vivien repeated, bewildered. “What about the house?”

“Don’t you know where you’re living?” the woman asked, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Vivien. “God, you don’t even appreciate what you have! This house deserves so much better than you. It deserves to have people who understand it, who see how unique it is. That worthless people like you have it, it just makes me want to –”

“Easy, babe,” the man said, reaching out and touching her arm. “We’ll get to that later. I wanna check this place out. Tie them up.”

The anger on the woman’s face disappeared, and she grinned. She grabbed a coil of nylon rope from a duffel bag sitting at the man’s feet, and began tying Vivien’s hands together behind her back.

Violet watched, her mind racing to find a means of escape. When the woman finished tying Vivien’s ankles together, she grabbed another piece of rope and came towards Violet. As soon as she touched Violet’s forearm, Violet reached out and slapped her as hard as she could, adding a kick to the shins for good measure.

“Ow!” the girl hissed, stumbling back. “Jesus Christ! This bitch just kicked me!”

The man stepped forward and yanked Violet to her feet by her upper arm. He grabbed the back of her head, pulling her hair hard enough to make tears spring to her eyes.

“Fucking do what we say or we’ll kill you right here,” the man ground out.

“Fuck you!” Violet replied, grabbing at his arm to try to free herself. The man backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the floor.

“Violet!” Vivien cried.

“Come on,” the man said, hauling her roughly to her feet once again. “If we can’t trust you to stay here and be good, you’ll just have to come with us.”

They half marched and half dragged her out into the hallway.

“What do you think we should do first – the basement?” the man asked, his hands bruising Violet’s arms. She grimaced, and tried to force herself to stop struggling.

“No, let’s save the basement for last,” the woman replied, with all the breathless happiness of a child at Disney World. The man leaned down and kissed her, heedless of Violet, who was nearly squished between them. Violet turned away as much as she could, her stomach turning.

“The second floor won’t take long,” the woman said after they parted and began to ascend the stairs. “I mean, hardly any murders even happened up here. There’s not that much to look at. But I still want to see.”

“Of course,” the man replied cheerfully, giving Violet a shove to move her along up the stairs.

As they entered the upstairs hallway and began to move towards the master suite, Violet cleared her throat.

“I get it,” she said, keeping her tone calm and even. “At first I figured you must be burglars, or crackheads looking for a place to crash. But I get it now. You’re just weirdoes who are into murders, macabre shit like that. Is that right?”

“Shut up,” the man replied, shoving her through the doorway of her parents’ bedroom.

“No, I mean, I get it. I do. It’s interesting, that stuff. But what’s the deal, do you find places where murders have happened and... What? Set up an altar in the corner? Play with your Ouija board? Hump your skanky girlfriend?”

“Watch your mouth,” the woman snapped.

The man gave Violet another push, letting her go, and she turned around to face them, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Honestly, I’m really just curious,” Violet said. “Did kinky sex and writing to death row inmates get stale?”

The man glowered at her, and Violet could tell she was starting to bug him. She grinned.

“I wouldn’t smile if I were -” the man began to say, but he was interrupted by a loud thump from downstairs, followed by what sounded like footsteps on the hardwood. “God damn it!” he swore, turning to the woman. “You didn’t tie her tight enough! I knew one of us should have stayed down there to watch her.”

“But baby,” the woman whined, her face crumpling, “I want to do this _with_ you!”

“Here,” he said, pulling a handgun out of the back of his jeans and passing it to her. “Keep an eye on her. I’ll go find the other one. She won’t go far with her daughter in the house. Shoot her if you have to, I don’t give a shit anymore.”

He left the room, his feet pounding on the stairs as he went back down to the main floor. The woman turned and looked at Violet, the gun hanging limply in her hand.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” the woman accused, practically pouting as she glared at Violet.

“Sorry,” Violet replied blandly. 

They stood in a silence that bordered on comically awkward, the woman fiddling restlessly with the gun in her hand. Watching her, Violet hoped she at least had the safety on.

There was a loud crash from downstairs, and the woman’s head whipped around to look out the door. 

“Babe?!” she cried. She didn’t even stop to give Violet a cursory threat about staying put; she dashed out the door and down the stairs. Violet stood still for a moment, then followed the woman, deciding not to waste any time in seizing this opportunity to escape. 

As she rounded the landing, there was a loud crack and a thump. Violet skidded to a stop to see Tate standing at the base of the stairs, a heavy paperweight from her dad’s office held over his head. The woman was collapsed in a heap at his feet.

“Tate?” Violet gasped, stunned.

Tate looked up, his arms coming down to his sides. He set the paperweight down on the floor and took the stairs two at a time, stopping a step below her.

“Did they hurt you? Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.

“N-no, I’m fine. Tate, what -”

“Violet!” 

Violet looked around Tate. Vivien stood in the foyer, the fire iron clutched tightly in her hands.

“Mom!” she cried. She went quickly down the stairs, stepping over the woman at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you okay?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of her mother.

Vivien dropped the fire iron to the floor and grabbed Violet into a tight hug.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” she replied. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What the hell happened?” she stepped away from her mom to see her better, glancing at Tate as he came down the stairs to stand a few feet from them, by the woman.

“She’s out cold,” Tate said, looking down at her. “Did you call the police?”

“Y-yeah,” Vivien replied, anxiously running a hand through her hair and blowing out a breath. “He’s out, too. I don’t think I hurt him too badly, but – I mean, I don’t -”

“What happened?” Violet repeated.

“Well, after they took you upstairs, I was trying to untie myself when Tate came.” 

“I was taking the garbage out a little while ago when I heard someone scream,” Tate supplied, looking at Violet. “The lock on the back door was busted, and I got worried that someone had broken in. So I came in.”

Violet nodded, looking back at Vivien, who continued.

“Tate untied me, and then we tried to lure the guy back down here, and I knocked him out while Tate hid, and then I watched him while Tate waited for her to come downstairs.”

“Holy shit,” Violet breathed. “Way to go, mom!”

Vivien gave her a tight smile, and then held a hand to her cheek. She was very pale. “I think I need to sit down.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Harmon,” Tate said in a soft, reassuring tone. 

“Yeah, mom, you kicked ass!” Violet said, wrapping an arm around her waist. Vivien was trembling, her hands shaking. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Or something stronger.”

Vivien nodded, and then turned to Tate. “I’m sure your mother must be wondering where you are, but... Look, I know this is probably crazy, but would you mind staying with us until the police get here?”

Tate’s face lit up and he smiled. “Of course, Mrs. Harmon. It’s not crazy at all.”

Violet took her mother into the kitchen while Tate dragged the woman into the living room with the man and kept an eye on them. In only a few minutes, two police cars and an ambulance were in the driveway. Violet found herself repeating her story to different officers as the two assholes who broke into her house were taken away on stretchers.

It was after midnight when the last cop car left and the house was quiet again. Vivien went to call Ben, leaving Tate and Violet alone in the kitchen.

“I should probably go,” Tate said, gesturing at the back door.

“Yeah, I guess,” Violet replied.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” Violet shrugged. “More worried about my mom than anything. And pretty glad that we’re neighbours.”

Tate nodded, looking down. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what I would have done if they’d hurt you.”

Violet stared at the top of his downturned head and found she didn’t have a reply, sarcastic or otherwise. 

After a moment, Tate looked back up and gave her a nod. “See you around,” he said.

“See you around,” Violet echoed numbly.

Tate went out the back door, and Violet closed the door behind him, watching as he disappeared between the houses. When he was gone, she jammed a chair under the doorknob. It wasn’t exactly secure, but it would have to do until the locksmith came tomorrow.

Violet left the kitchen and stood in the foyer, listening to the silence. The house was so quiet that, for a moment, it was almost as though it was holding its breath.

That night, Vivien made Violet sleep in the master bedroom with her, the fire iron resting against the night stand, and every light in the house turned on.

***

“Don’t be too angry at your dad,” Vivien said. She pulled the car to a halt at a stop sign, checking the intersection from behind her sunglasses. It had been a week since the break-in, and once the locks had been fixed, a security system installed, and police interviews and re-interviews endured, things had mostly gone back to normal. Or normal for the Harmons, anyway, which meant that Vivien was terrified of her own shadow while pretending not to be, Violet was treating her father to an icy protracted silence, and Ben walked around with a forced smile on his face, suggesting things like “family game night” as though a game of Monopoly would fix everything.

Violet eyed her mother for a moment, and then huffed and turned away as Vivien took a right turn, headed in the direction of Westfield High. “Why not?” she asked. “You are.”

A smile quirked at the corner of Vivien’s mouth. “Yes, I am. But he’s my husband, and he’s your father. It’s different.”

“Either way he’s still an asshole.”

“Enough,” Vivien said. Her voice was tired. 

“Whatever,” Violet sighed, sinking lower in her seat and glaring at the houses as they passed. 

They were silent for the rest of the ride, which thankfully was not long. Violet only had to endure the tense silence for another three minutes before Vivien pulled up in front of the school. She put the car in park and removed her sunglasses, turning to look at Violet.

“Sweetheart -” she began, but Violet grabbed her bag from the floor and cut her off.

“Bye,” Violet said, opening the door and getting out. “Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll walk home.” With that, she slammed the door shut and shouldered her bag, turning in the direction of the school. 

Without looking back, she walked around the side of the school, as though she was going to use one of the rear entrances. Instead she kept walking past the student parking lot, past the row of dumpsters with their congress of hovering wasps, out toward the bleachers on the far side of the football field.

The track team was out for their morning practice, running laps. Violet skirted around them, keeping her distance and ducking behind the safety of the bleachers. She breathed a sigh of relief, pleased to find no one else back there. She was alone.

Violet found a spot to sit, facing away from the school, towards the chain link fence that divided the field from the back lane. She sat cross-legged, leaning back against one of the rusted metal supports, and hauled her bag into her lap. She pulled out her walkman and put the headphones on, hitting play on the tape already inside. It was a tape she’d made herself, full of songs she’d heard on the local college radio station. Violet’s last several evenings had been spent sitting next to her stereo, her finger poised over the record button, waiting for her favourite songs to be played, trying to avoid accidentally recording the DJ’s intros.

She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the metal post behind her. She smoked slowly, savouring the rich tobacco and the acrid aftertaste on her tongue. By the time she stubbed her cigarette out on the bottom of her sneaker, she was so relaxed that she was tempted to curl up right there in the grass and take a nap. Instead, she went back to leaning against the metal post and listening to her music, eyes closed, not a single care permitted in her immediate world.

Violet must have fallen asleep, however, for the next thing she knew, she was waking with a frown, the sun glaring in her eyes and turning her shady spot into a little oven. She was squinting up at the bright afternoon sunlight filtering through the bleachers when a face appeared above hers, staring down at her with trepidation.

It was Tate.

“Jesus Christ,” Violet swore, sitting up and yanking her headphones off. Her heart was racing, but she just brought her knees to her chest and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on people?”

“Actually yes,” Tate replied, looking chagrined. “I said your name a couple times, but I guess you didn’t hear.”

“No, I didn’t,” Violet said. She stared up at him and he stared down at her. After a long pause, he cleared his throat.

“Can I sit with you?”

“It’s a free country,” Violet replied, noncommittal. She clasped her elbows with her hands, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She watched as Tate sat down across from her, leaving a considerable distance between them. He sat crosslegged, and began pulling up blades of straggly grass from the dry turf, collecting them in his hand. He seemed absorbed with this, frowning down at the ground in concentration as the breeze made an even bigger mess of his blond curls.

“So your suspension’s over?” Violet asked after a long stretch of silence.

“Yeah,” Tate replied. “Woulda been longer, but I think it helped that I’m already seeing a psychiatrist.”

Violet watched as Tate made a little pile of grass in front of him, sheltered from the breeze by his foot.

“My dad was pretty pissed,” she said.

Tate nodded. “He said he’d keep treating me, but he doesn’t want to do it at your house. We’re going to go somewhere else for our sessions,” he explained.

Violet scoffed. “I don’t see what the point of that is, seeing as you live next door, but whatever. I guess that’s his version of a compromise.”

“I guess,” Tate replied. He was quiet for a moment, just looking at her. “I really think your dad can help me.”

Violet nodded, eyeing him. “Do you think you need help?”

“Yeah,” Tate replied hesitantly. “Yeah, I think I do. Does that freak you out?”

“I’m pretty hard to freak out,” Violet replied. “Anyway, who doesn’t need help these days?”

“So does that mean we can be friends again?” Tate watched her, his expression inscrutable.

Violet looked at him, weighing her options. After a moment she gave a little shrug. “Sure, why not? Anyway, ever since people at school found out about the whole Leah thing, everyone steers clear of me.” Tate stared at her, clearly unsure what to think about that. Violet reached out and gave him a gentle punch in the upper arm. “Jeez, lighten up. I’m fine with it. You can be, too.”

Tate visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping and the tension leaving his face. “Okay,” he said. “Good.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Violet lit a cigarette to give her hands something to do while she watched Tate mess around with the pile of grass in front of him. Abruptly, he picked up the grass and tossed it away from them, scattering the dry blades in the breeze. 

The motion caused the unbuttoned sleeve of his too-large flannel shirt to flap open, revealing a grungy gauze bandage on his wrist.

“What’s that about?” Violet asked, nodding at the bandage.

Tate looked down at his arm, frowning. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, and began to pick at the edge of the greying gauze.

“I’ve been kinda down, I guess,” he said eventually, not meeting her eyes.

“It looks gross. You should probably take the bandage off, let it get some air,” Violet said.

Tate pulled a Swiss army knife out of a pocket in his jeans, flipping the blade open. He slid it against his skin, under the bandage, and sliced it open with one quick movement. The gauze and tape fell away to reveal a pair of nasty cuts on his wrist.

Violet took in the ugly sight of them, and then looked up to find Tate watching her for a reaction.

“Not much scares you, huh?” Tate observed eventually, apparently finding her lack of response remarkable.

“Guess not,” Violet shrugged. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and then Violet cleared her throat. “Thanks for being there, the other night.”

Tate smiled at her, a genuine smile so disarming that it was difficult to connect the boy in front of her with the boy who had attacked Leah.

In the distance, the school bell rang. Violet groaned and began shoving her things back into her bag before standing up. She shouldered her bag as Tate got to his feet.

“You want to come over and hang out tonight?” she asked.

“I don’t think your dad would like that,” he replied, tilting his head at her.

“Who gives a shit about him?” Violet said. “Anyway, there are plenty of places in the house where we could hang out and he wouldn’t even know. Come over, or don’t. I don’t care.”

With that, she ducked out from under the bleachers and turned to walk back towards the school for her next class. She had only been walking across the field for a few seconds when Tate caught up to her.

“I’ll meet you in the basement,” he said. “After your parents are asleep. Okay?”

“Whatever,” she grinned, and left him standing in the middle of the field as the warning bell rang.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been stuck in a writer's block black hole for nearly two years. I'm trying very hard to break out of it, starting with finishing up some WIPs. Here goes nothing.

The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked, punctuating each monotonous second of the excruciating family dinner Violet was enduring.

“So honey, do you have any big projects coming up at school?” Ben asked. Violet didn’t look up from her plate, but out the corner of her eye, she saw him take a sip of red wine. She wished both of her parents were drinking because then they’d go to bed that much sooner, but her mom had seen something on _Dateline_ about how doctors now believed that drinking even a glass of wine while pregnant was bad for the baby, and Vivien had completely sworn off drinking because of it.

Violet poked at a green bean, spearing it on the tines of her fork before sliding it around her plate like a mushy green push-broom.

“I guess that depends on your definition of big,” she replied.

“Well,” Ben said, leaning forward, “what do you have to do this week? Big or small.”

“I have a book report due next Tuesday.” Violet glanced at her dad. He was watching her with what appeared to be interest. She wondered if it was faked, if this was the face he wore for his patients’ benefit while they whined to him about their unsatisfying lives and inattentive spouses.

“Great!” said Ben, “what book are you reading?”

“Dunno,” Violet shrugged. “ _The Bell Jar_ , maybe. Something with at least a few suicide attempts would be good.”

“Violet,” Vivien chastised softly, frowning. Violet looked back down at her plate.

“You know, Violet,” Ben said, “treating serious subjects with sarcasm is often a defensive posturing behaviour meant to make the speaker seem blasé while simultaneously acting as a subtle cry for help.”

“That’s interesting,” Violet replied, eyebrows raised. “You should write that down. It’s been a while since you published anything. May I be excused?” She looked to her mom to answer the question; Vivien was watching her with a worried expression.

“Sure, honey,” Vivien said after a moment, resting her elbows on the table and steepling her hands at her chin. “If you’re done, you can go.”

Violet stood, pushing her chair back, and left the table, not bothering to clear her dishes. As she left the room and hurried up the stairs, she could hear her parents begin arguing at a whisper.

_“I’m just trying to reach her. At least I’m doing that, you’re not even – ”_

_“You make her feel nitpicked! She’s not one of your patients. You have to let her talk to you on her own!”_

Violet went to her room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. She knew she was being a brat, causing discord deliberately, but she didn't feel guilty. They were the ones with the shitty marriage, and if they expected her to be Miss Mary Sunshine so they could feel better about it, they were kidding themselves.

Picking her book bag up off the floor where she had abandoned it earlier, Violet dug around inside until she found her Chemistry homework. With a sigh, she spread her books out on her bed. Her schoolwork was complete bullshit, but it had to be done. Not because she cared about school or marks – it was that she knew that admission to a college on the other side of the country was her fastest ticket away from both of her parents, and back to a place that was remotely tolerable.

Besides, she had to find something to keep herself busy until Tate snuck over.

***

Hours later, Violet roused herself from her self-imposed bedroom exile, setting aside the novel she was reading. She walked to her door to listen for signs that her parents had gone to bed.

Violet pressed her ear to the door. After a moment, she heard the soft steps of her mom ascending the stairs. Vivien hesitated at the top, then came down the hallway and knocked softly on Violet’s door. Violet took two steps back.

“Violet?” Vivien inquired softly. “Are you still awake, honey?”

Violet stared at the dark wooden door, and said nothing.

Vivien sighed. Violet listened as she retreated down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Seconds later, Violet heard the old pipes groan as Vivien began to run a bath.

Opening her bedroom door, Violet slipped out into the hallway. There were sounds still coming from downstairs. Prepared to act as though she was getting a glass of water before bed, Violet crept down the stairs, trying to determine where her dad was. She paused at the bottom of the grand staircase, peering down the corridor. There was light coming from the direction of his office. Ben was probably holed up in there reviewing files. Or having a drink away from his wife and daughter while _pretending_ to review files. Violet rolled her eyes and turned toward the basement door.

She paused, looking at the old brass handle on the door. A feeling of trepidation gave her pause for a moment, and then she reached out and turned the knob, descending into the damp, close darkness. 

Closing the door behind her so her dad wouldn’t get curious, Violet made her way down the creaky wooden steps. 

Violet felt along the wall, dragging her left hand along the dusty whitewashed wall. She was sure the light switch was somewhere by the last step. She descended to the cold floor, still feeling for the switch.

“ – won't do it – might not even survive – ”

Violet froze. She pressed her lips together and held her breath, listening.

“ – can’t help you – ”

Someone was whispering in the darkness. Violet opened her mouth, about to shout or scream, she wasn’t sure, and then she heard a soft, sad little sound, almost like a woman crying.

“H-hello?” she said, surprised at the tremor in her voice.

Silence was the only response to her greeting, and then the scrape of shoes on dusty cement. A metallic click sounded, and harsh light from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling glared in her eyes. Violet squeezed them shut and opened them again, and they focused on the person standing before her. 

“Tate!” she hissed, barely managing to keep her voice down.

“Hey,” he said, grinning at her. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” Violet snapped, defensive. “You could have turned the light on before so I wouldn’t fall down the stairs and break my neck.” She squinted at him. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“No,” Tate replied, shaking his head. His mouth snapped shut and he looked chagrined. “I mean – well, yeah, I guess.”

“Freak,” Violet teased, without any harshness. “I guess I can't really blame you. It’s not like there’s anyone around here worth talking to, anyway. Except me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tate agreed, grinning.

Violet smirked, and then looked around them at the dank basement.

“I’ve hardly been down here since we moved in,” she said. “How’d you get in, anyway?”

“There’s an old cellar door way at the back,” Tate replied. “The lock’s all rusted out.”

“Jesus,” Violet groaned, “that’s comforting. Good to know anyone can just sneak in whenever they want.”

“Not anyone. The door’s covered by a ton of old bushes and weeds. It’s impossible to see unless you know it’s there.”

“Ah.” Violet crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a curious eyebrow at him. “So you knew it was there. Do you break in here often? Is that like, a family trait or something?”

Tate stared at her a moment, then gave a cavalier shrug. “I’ve lived in the neighbourhood my whole life. You learn a thing or two.”

“Nice save, you big creep,” Violet smiled.

Tate eyed her, and then smiled, his expression turning cocky.

“I did scare you, didn’t I?” he said softly, taking a step towards her.

Violet rolled her eyes, and was about to give him a punch in the arm, but he leaned in and touched her lips with his. Violet tilted her head and kissed him back, her hand grasping his upper arm as he gently pushed into her space, upsetting her balance and holding her up at the same time.

After a moment, he pulled away, smiling down at her. His forehead creased. 

“I bet I _can_ scare you,” he said, smiling crookedly. He took her hand and led her further into the basement.

Tate drew her into the little room where the new hot water heater had been installed. A crate and a couple of boxes had been arranged on the floor like a table and chairs. Pulling his lighter from his pocket, Tate lit several tea lights which sat on the empty, dusty shelves along one wall. The candles' flickering flames pushed feebly against the darkness, illuminating the space just enough for Violet to see a Ouija board laid out on the crate at her feet.

“A seance, huh?” Violet said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You really think pushing a piece of plastic around on a game board while you pretend to hear noises is going to scare me?”

“Maybe,” Tate replied. He lit a larger pillar candle on the floor beside the board. “Anyway, this isn't a seance. I think you need a medium for that.”

“Hm. You know a lot about mediums and seances?”

Tate didn't respond. He sat down on the far box and gestured for Violet to take a seat. She did so, but not without rolling her eyes. Tate held his hands out to her, palms up. Grudgingly, Violet extended her own. Tate wrapped his fingers around her slim wrists and held their hands out between them for a moment, suspended. His palms were cool and dry. Violet felt her face heat.

“Dr. Charles Montgomery and his wife Nora built this house.”

Tate went on to describe the sordid genesis of the house, about Nora's love for rubies and French wines, and Charles's love for ether and anatomical curiosities. Violet listened as Tate described the “side business” that took place in the basement, and the kidnapping and murder of their infant son, Thaddeus. Violet was unimpressed; she had read all about it in the book from the school library. But when Tate began describing Charles trying to play Doctor Frankenstein with his dead son's corpse, Violet raised an eyebrow. That wasn't in any book.

“And that thing remained, in this basement, to this very day,” Tate intoned, his eyes wide and dark.

“Oh my god,” Violet breathed. “You are so full of _shit_.”

Tate gaped at her, apparently surprised that she hadn't shrieked and run for the stairs.

“You don’t scare me,” Violet scoffed. “Anyway, I read all about it already in that book from the library. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“What, that the Montgomerys’ baby was still in this basement?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “No, obviously not that part, since you made it up. And anyway, I told you – I don't even believe in that shit.”

Tate continued to stare at her, apparently puzzled that she wasn't frightened. Annoyed, Violet rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing dust off her tights.

“Are you ever gonna ask me out?” she asked.

“What?” Tate said, staring at her.

“I said, are you ever gonna ask me out?” she repeated. “All we ever do is hang around here. Or school, which hardly counts.”

“You wanna go on a date?”

“Yeah,” Violet said. She took in his surprised expression and began to feel self-conscious. “I mean, we don’t have to, if – ”

“Okay,” Tate said, abruptly standing up to face her. “When should we go?”

“I dunno. Friday or Saturday? Everyone will be at Halloween parties, so everywhere else should be pretty deserted.”

“Deserted sounds good,” Tate said. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile as his eyes dropped to her mouth. He took her hand in his and leaned down, kissing her.

When he pulled away, Violet reeled a bit on her feet, her face flushed. She'd never understood the expression about having butterflies in your stomach. She understood it now. She cleared her throat and tried to look unaffected.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked. “You’re the local, you’ll have to tell me where we should go.”

“I’ve got a place. You want me to surprise you?”

“Okay,” Violet shrugged. 

Tate grinned. A thump sounded upstairs, and they both started.

“Come on,” Violet said, grabbing Tate's hand. “I'll sneak you out.”

***

“I'll get it!” Ben's voice called up the staircase, interrupting the argument Violet and Vivien in which were engaged.

It was Halloween and the doorbell had been ringing almost non-stop since 4 o'clock. It wasn't even dark out and dozens of neighbourhood kids had been to the door already. Given that every group Violet had opened the door to was accompanied by at least as many wide-eyed adults as children, she had to wonder whether they were there to chaperone their kids, or to ogle the inside of the Murder House and its new residents.

“Can you tell me where you're going?” Vivien was asking as she followed Violet down the stairs.

“I don't really know, Mom. Just – out, I guess,” Violet replied. 

“Well, can you at least tell me who you're going out with?”

Violet stopped short in the foyer and turned around to face her mother. Vivien's brow was wrinkled with concern. Violet sighed.

“Some kids from school. Jennifer and um, Beth. Bethany.” Violet lied, her face relaxing into the bland mask she always used when lying to her parents.

“Jennifer and Bethany,” Vivien repeated. She nodded. “And are Jennifer and Bethany nice girls? They're nice to you?”

“Yeah, mom,” Violet replied, huffing in embarrassment. “They're nice to me. They're normal people.”

Vivien watched her a moment longer before her expression changed to something resembling relief. Violet suppressed a grimace and a sudden surge of guilt. Her mom was _relieved_ she even had friends. Too bad they were total fabrications.

“Okay, sweetheart. Have fun. Do you need any money?”

“No, mom, I'm fine,” Violet mumbled.

“Home by 11, okay?” Off Violet's pointed look, Vivien smiled. “Okay, midnight. But be careful. There will be lots of freaks out tonight.”

“I can handle it,” Violet said, walking backwards to the door with her hands raised. “There are lots of freaks in here too.”

“Ha ha,” Vivien replied, deadpan. “Say goodbye to your dad, please.”

“Bye dad!” Violet shouted. Vivien winced and shooed her out the front door as another troupe of trick-or-treaters dashed up the front steps.

Violet dodged around the little witches and goblins, ignoring the stares of the adults. She sailed down the steps, nearly running into Moira, who stood by the front gate.

“Be careful out there, young lady,” Moira said, turning to look at Violet. The maid had a black coat on, and was holding a pocketbook under her arm.

“Where are you going?” Violet asked, surprised to see Moira dressed in anything other than her uniform. She hardly ever went out; Violet had started to privately suspect that Moira rolled a cot out in the basement every night.

Moira gave her a look that suggested her question was pert, but she didn't say so. “Your mother was gracious enough to give me the night off. I'm going to visit family,” she said. “And you?”

“Just going to hang out with some friends,” Violet replied.

Moira watched her for a moment, her cloudy eye and the other boring into Violet's with equal intensity. Violet was tempted to ask what was wrong with her eye; Moira seemed young for glaucoma or whatever it was. But Moira gave her head a little shake and smiled the small smile she seemed to save mostly for Vivien.

“I see.” Moira looked at Violet a moment longer before clearing her throat. “Be particular in the company you keep, Violet. You'll soon learn that being alone is preferable to spending your precious time with certain people.”

“Okay,” Violet replied. Had anyone else said the same thing to her, she would have rolled her eyes. But there was something grave in Moira's tone that stopped her. “Have a nice time with your family,” Violet said.

“I will,” Moira nodded, and the corner of her mouth pulled suddenly downwards in a sad grimace. The expression was gone as soon as it had appeared. “Thank you.”

Violet smiled tightly and opened the gate. The streets were crowded with little Power Rangers and X-Men dashing from house to house. Violet pulled a cigarette from deep inside her cardigan pocket and lit it, heading down the street as the shouts and laughter of trick-or-treaters rang through the air.

Turning the corner of the street, Violet spotted him standing under the branches of an overhanging avocado tree. Tate's head was bowed, and he was biting at the skin of his knuckle. He glanced up as Violet approached, and grinned.

“Hey,” Violet greeted him, smiling. Tate replied in kind, smiling down at her. “You ready for our date?”

“Yeah,” Violet replied. She looked away, feeling shy. “Where are you taking me?”

“It's a surprise,” Tate said, eyebrows raised into an innocent expression. Violet smirked as he hopped off the curb and unlocked the passenger side door of his Chevette. He held it open for her. “Ma'am.”

Bemused by his uncharacteristic playfulness, Violet merely gave him a nod and slid into the car.

Tate drove them out of their neighbourhood and west, towards the ocean. Keeping his eyes on the road, he rummaged through the pile of tapes and napkins and spare bits of paper in the centre console. Eventually his hand emerged with a tape clutched in his fingers.

“You like Alice in Chains?” he asked. 

“Sure,” Violet replied. She took the tape from him and slid it into the deck. “You watch the road.”

_If I can't be my own,  
I'd feel better dead_

Violet cranked the volume. Tate smiled over at her, and they drove the rest of the way without speaking, Tate drumming the steering wheel along with Alice in Chains. Eventually they pulled up along a stretch of coast that hadn't been subdivided into expensive real estate, or populated with rollerblading hard-bodies and touristy boutiques. This section of coastline was rocky and secluded, and more importantly, there wasn't a person in sight.

Tate parked at the ridge of a low cliff, reaching into the backseat for a blanket before exiting the car.

“You're not afraid of heights, are you?”

“No,” Violet replied sourly, slamming the car door a little too hard. She gave him an arch look. “I'm just wondering if this is where you usually come to ogle girls in bikinis.”

“Yeah, right,” Tate scoffed. He held a hand out to her. “Come on.”

Violet took his hand and followed as he led her to a steep, rocky path that wound down to the beach. He threw the blanket down on the sand, and began gathering sun-bleached driftwood from along the beach. Violet joined in, picking up sticks and discarding the damp ones. As the sun began to sink deeper towards the horizon, they arranged the sticks into a cone and piled the largest branches nearby for later.

“Stand back,” Tate said, crouching by their creation. He flicked his zippo and cupped the flame in his hand, reaching into the centre of the cone where the smallest twigs and some dried grass were nested.

The flame snatched up the dry kindling. Tate stood next to Violet and they watched as the fire began to spread to the smaller sticks.

“There's something about fire,” Tate said, his voice scarcely above a mumble. “Something... cleansing. You know?”

Violet examined his profile. Tate stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes. He seemed mesmerized.

“Sure,” Violet replied softly. “I get that.”

Tate turned to look at her, smiling. Violet shivered, and pulled her sweater tighter around herself.

“You cold?” Tate asked. He gestured towards the blanket. “Thought it'd be a good idea to build a fire.”

Violet sat down on the blanket, crossing her legs. Tate mimicked her, sitting close enough that his knee pressed into her thigh.

“Very caveman of you,” she said. She glanced over at him. “It's perfect. Thanks.”

“I thought we could hang out, watch the sunset. Oh, and -” Tate paused, rummaging around in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He removed something small, and held it out to her in his palm. A joint. “You know, if you want.”

“Sure,” Violet said, lifting one shoulder. “Why not?”

They sat and watched the sun begin its descent, turning the western sky a hundred shades of orange and pink and amber as night fell and gathered around them. 

The joint had been smoked and the roach thrown into the fire, which was producing so much heat that they'd had to stand and drag the blanket further away. Violet was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, feeling blissfully relaxed in every cell of her body. She gazed into the fire and thought about what Tate had said. There _was_ something about fire.

Tate was stretched out beside her on his back, propped up on his elbows so he could watch the fire burn and the waves wash over the rocks. His hip was right next to Violet's; she could feel the warmth of his body, hear the sound of him breathing. She glanced over to see him watching her. Her stomach tightened.

Unclasping her arms, she shifted back. Neither said anything as she anchored her hand on the blanket next to his chest and turned, her legs leaning into his. She held his stare for a moment longer, and then leaned down and kissed him.

They kissed that way for several long moments, softly, almost shyly. Violet tilted her chin and parted her lips to run her tongue against his bottom lip. Tate gave a ragged exhale and sat up, grasping her elbows and pushing her gently until she was lying on her back.

Tate kissed her enthusiastically, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other under her back, holding her close to him as he rolled his weight over her. Violet parted her legs, crooking one knee against his side as he pressed his hips into hers.

Violet frowned a little as she ran her tongue against his bottom lip again. She wasn’t exactly an expert about these things, but she’d read a handful of shitty ‘70s erotica novels in junior high. Shouldn’t she be able to feel _something_?

She unclasped the handful of his sweater she was holding and slid her hand between them, to the waistband of his black jeans. He went tense above her, freezing.

“I want to,” she whispered against his lips, pushing her hand lower.

“No,” Tate replied, his voice strangled as he pulled out of her reach, lifting himself off her with one arm as his other hand grabbed her forearm and pushed it away from him.

“Oh,” Violet exhaled, her lust dislodged abruptly by confusion and intense humiliation. “Sorry.”

“Violet, no. It’s – I want to be with you so badly, I swear, it’s just... That’s never happened to me before, with a girl.” 

They stared at each other. Tate’s expression was miserable, and he seemed desperate for Violet to understand. But she didn’t.

“What, are you gay?” she asked.

“ _No_ ,” he replied, looking annoyed. He gave a frustrated huff and sat up, turning to look out at the ocean. Violet went still, staring up at the stars, made dim and indistinct by LA’s smog and electric sprawl. Tate was saying something about antidepressants and side-effects, but Violet was barely listening.

All she could think about was that she had finally found someone she could stand to be around, someone who understood her, someone she was actually attracted to, someone she could fall in love with, have sex with, and _of course_ he wasn't actually into her. Why would he be? Why would anyone?

“Could have been the weed, too,” Tate said.

“What?” Violet turned. Tate was staring at her plaintively, his eyes wide and damp.

“I said it could have been the weed,” he repeated, his face flushing. He looked away, out at the blackness beyond the water's edge.

Violet's eyes pricked with tears, and she began to stand. No. Anything but _crying_.

“I should go.” Tate grabbed her hand, looked up at her. “No, Vi – please. Please don't go.”

Reluctant, Violet sat back down on the blanket beside him. Tate moved close to her, wrapping his arm around her waist. There was an awkward beat before Violet sighed and leaned into his side.

“I come here a lot,” Tate said, “when I need to get away, when things get too crazy. I found this place by accident, years ago, and I've been coming here ever since.”

“By accident?” Violet asked.

“Yeah. I ran away once, when I was little. I took my bike and just rode and rode until my legs gave out, pretty much, and I ended up here.”

There was a pause as Violet listened to the waves rush against the rocks nearby. Violet wasn't stupid; she knew Tate wanted her to probe with more questions. Anything to distract her from what had just happened, she supposed. She sighed.

“Why'd you run away?”

“It was when my dad left,” Tate replied. “He just went to work one day, and never came home. My mom said he ran away. I wish he would have taken me with him.”

Violet glanced up at Tate. He was staring out at the dark horizon, a hard look on his face.

“Why do you think he left?” she asked.

Tate shrugged. “I don't know. Too much pressure, I guess, with all of us.”

“All of you?”

“Addie and I were kind of a handful,” he said, hesitating. He frowned down at his lap. “I'm sorry about earlier. It's... It's embarrassing. I don't know what to say, Vi.”

Violet watched him. His embarrassment was evident. She felt a swell of sympathy, followed by an unsettling feeling of shame. There was no reason for her to feel slighted just because he couldn't or wouldn't have sex with her right away. That's all anyone at school cared about – scoring. And who wanted to be like those assholes?

It was only that Violet was curious. She wanted to know what the big deal was. What everyone was so obsessed with. What was so significant that it could create lives, change them. That it could tear her family apart.

“It's okay,” Violet said finally. She nudged his shoulder with hers. “We both would have just gotten an ass full of sand, anyway.”

Tate snorted and hugged her closer. They sat in silence, looking out at the ocean and listening to the waves crash on the shore.

“Sometimes it seems like all this high school crap, all that shit with your parents, that that's all there is,” Tate said after a moment. “You know?” 

Violet thought about her mom, pregnant and terrified, and her father, bitter and frustrated. And her, stuck between them, wanting little to do with either.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied, rubbing her cheek against Tate's shoulder.

“You ever think about what you're gonna do later? After high school?” Tate asked.

“I used to.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah,” Violet said, thinking back to Boston. She'd sit up in her room alone for hours, just writing and drawing scenes and stories, doodles and poems about nothing and everything. She used to think about going to art school after high school; she even had a letter of recommendation from her freshman art teacher somewhere. 

Violet frowned. She hadn't picked up a pencil or pen since they moved. It wasn't the trouble with her parents and her baby brother; she had drawn and written plenty after that. No, it was just since they moved. She wasn't sure she even knew where her notebooks were. 

Tate nudged her with his knee. “Why not anymore?”

“I dunno,” Violet shrugged, trying to recall when she'd last had her notebooks. On the drive from Boston, certainly, but she couldn't remember seeing them after that. She would have to look for them when she got home. “My mind's been on other things, I guess.”

“I get that,” Tate said, smiling.

Violet returned his smile, then glanced down at her wristwatch. It was nearly midnight already. She grimaced.

“Already?” Tate asked, observing her.

“Yeah,” Violet replied. “Sorry. I don't really care about being grounded, except...”

“It's okay. I don't really want them to lock you up and throw away the key either.” Tate hopped to his feet and held a hand out to help Violet up. Together, they kicked sand into the dying fire, which extinguished with a hiss.

They drove home in silence, the radio between them left idle for once. The streets were empty; all the candy-seeking kids had gone home to come down from their sugar highs. All that was left were the remains of smashed jack-o-lanterns, discarded masks, and empty candy wrappers tangled along unkempt boulevards.

Tate parked in his driveway and killed the lights; they stared up at the master bedroom window next door. The lights were on there, but the main level was dark.

“Good,” Violet said. “Less chance I'll have to actually talk to either of them.”

Tate grinned. “I made you something,” he said, and reached over to open the glove box. He pulled out a tape, and passed it to Violet.

Tate had created a cover for it, a piece of notepaper inside the plastic case. A crow sketched in black ink. Violet popped the cassette open. Instead of a track listing, Tate had written a short message in black marker: _You’re my zero._

“It's a mystery tape,” Tate said.

“Cool,” Violet said. “Thanks.”

They watched each other in silence, the moment stretching awkwardly. Tate cleared his throat. Violet huffed an embarrassed laugh and rolled her eyes. 

“Come here,” she said, leaning forward.

Tate leaned in and their lips met in a kiss. They lingered for several moments, before Violet finally pulled away and pressed her forehead to his. 

“I'll see you at school, okay?”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Goodnight, Violet.”

“Goodnight, Tate.” Smiling, Violet hopped out of the car and crept into the yard and up to the house. She let herself in the side kitchen door. The room was lit only by the light over the stove, and the house was silent.

Upstairs, Violet closed her bedroom door behind her. Looking around the shadows of the dim room, she felt a strange sensation creep across her skin. It was like walking alone across a dark parking lot, like being awoken by an unidentifiable sound in the middle of the night. 

Like believing you're alone in a room, only to find that you are not alone at all.

Violet swallowed and flicked on the lightswitch. The feeling vanished. 

Frowning, Violet turned to her closet and began getting changed. As she pulled one of her favourite oversized t-shirts over her head and shimmied her tights down her legs, she had the distracting thought that there was something she had wanted to remember. Something she wanted to look for. It had been important, hadn't it? 

She groped around her mind for the thought, but it only became harder to grasp. She couldn't remember. And she was suddenly tired. So very tired.

Violet climbed into bed and fell asleep.


End file.
